


Burr Holes

by thorthelizardgod



Series: Goretober 2018 [1]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Cannibalism, Edgar is an absolute mess, Espionage, Ethical Dilemmas, Eye Trauma, Forced Cannibalism, Gen, Micolash is gross but tbh that's normal, Moral Dilemmas, Murder, Vomiting, capture with intent to murder, everyone in Mensis is weird, scopophilia, trepanning, well sort-of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 21:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16183718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorthelizardgod/pseuds/thorthelizardgod
Summary: There's probably, absolutely, definitely a better way to deal with nuisances.or: Edgar does what he's told and feels bad.





	Burr Holes

Maybe bringing a hunter to a raving madman was a bad idea. 

Maybe Edgar felt a twinge of guilt at the hunter, one of a trio, helplessly bound to the chair in front of Micolash and him- coils of rope, constricting snakes, hobbling their legs together from the ankles to just under their kneecaps; Micolash had half a mind to bind them with their legs separate, a leg of flesh and bone against a leg of wood and old varnish, but Edgar had managed to convince him that hobbling was a better idea; somehow, between Edgar’s suggestion and getting to where they were now Micolash had managed to drivel on about cosmic nonsense the entire time. Eyes, stars, cosmos and enlightenment and nothing that made any sense- and somehow, all of it narrowed down into the hunter in front of him, a shuddering construct of sinew, not of stardust or knowledge, with Micolash tapping at the back of the poor sad thing’s head as he ranted. 

In regards to the hunter, all Edgar knew was that they were part of a trio of hunters- one from Yharnam, one from the Church, and this one from Yharnam as well. Somehow they’d all managed to end up here. Somehow they were a nuisance. Somehow, countless games of cat-and-mouse had resulted in the fruit of Edgar’s labors: a very confused, very exhausted, and very betrayed-looking hunter at their mercy.

Edgar didn’t speak, and neither did the hunter, with Micolash making all of the noise that rebounded off the walls of whatever random room they’d decided to hole up in. Edgar heard Micolash ranting, yes, but he heard and saw as if he was very far away and something was keeping him from actually focusing his ears and eyes on whatever was happening around him. Maybe it was better to be like this, being so used to constant noise his brain learned when to stop caring, only coming back in to hear a snippet of conversation before zoning out again.

Edgar always delved into his thoughts, thinking of his purpose, how he ended up here of all places. It wasn’t good for an intellect to ignore mannerisms or potential information- here was Edgar, a sheep in wolf’s clothing, with one clear purpose from the choir: Spy. And don’t get caught. Miles away from safety, watching every step he took, checking over everything in his room before he slept and after he woke up. 

But he’d been told it would be worth it if he was a true intellect- _the research_ , they said, _would be of utmost importance._ It was all laid out for him neatly, about Great Ones and mentions of ascension, but he didn’t care for any of that until they ended their proposal with _think of the knowledge you’ll gain. It’s a researcher’s dream. You’d be learning as much as you’d be proving your loyalty._

And how could Edgar resist that? This was as much for him as it was for The Choir, but the constant, rusted grating of the same old ideas being thrown at him by eager tongues made him homesick. The smell of Mensis made him homesick. He wanted to go deaf so he’d have a reason not to listen, since almost everything he heard was unimportant or something he’d already heard countless times before. He could tell how trivial something was just by hearing the tone of someone’s voice.

But this wasn’t unimportant. It was noteworthy, and as exhausting as it was to pretend to be interested, it was essential. This wasn’t just words- it was actions, and he focused back in on what was happening long enough to see Micolash pointing at him, almost accusingly and at the same time reverential. “You told me about the lecherous things done at the fishing hamlet! Eyes granted within head-flesh!” 

Edgar grimaced internally, but kept a straight face, nodding a wordless affirmation of what Micolash had said. Edgar wasn’t supposed to tell anyone here anything about the church or the Choir, and that _absolutely_ included secrets about the writhing underbelly of past deeds; when had he even told Micolash about the Hamlet massacre? Oh, now he remembered- it was to prod more information out of him. He wasn’t supposed to say anything about it, but they had told him to use any means possible to further his work- and which was more important: one small secret, a miniscule betrayal of loyalty, or doing his work as an intellect? 

A bony hand grabbing his wrist tore him from his musing, and Edgar noticed that the hunter’s tricorn cap had been taken off, revealing a tousled mess of dark hair. He still wasn’t listening as Micolash took both his hands, only focusing back on the situation when they were placed on each side of the hunter’s head. Firmly. Their dark locks were soft. 

“Keep them still.”

That was another thing he'd been told before he left- Do what you're asked to do, no matter what. It was essential, of course, a way to keep them from getting suspicious of him and an easy way to keep a low profile. 

But this wasn’t right. Edgar was still forcing himself to focus, this was valuable, after all, but was it justifiable to watch murder? To assist murder when he could have possibly spared this poor thing? But if he refused to help then Micolash’s suspicions would rise, and maybe he’d raise hell, too. Edgar had come here to learn, and if he wanted to learn he’d have to bear witness, but the underlying feeling of _something is definitely wrong and you need to leave_ clung to his lungs and he suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, no, it _was_ too small. Why was the hunter so warm? He glanced down at their face and saw bloodshot, tired eyes staring back into his eyes through the glasses he wore.

The sound of a voice saying _any means necessary_ cut through the firm, oily anxiety in his brain and flashed through the front of his mind, just in time to bring the room back into dark blue focus as he heard a resounding _crack_ and watched the hunter’s bloodshot eyes widen, the only reaction beyond a small noise of pain and surprise before their eyes seemed to glaze over and lose focus. He remembered studying trephination, the five methods, the history and purposes of it- and now Edgar was watching it happen right in front of him. This was learning. This was the only way it could have happened.

His hands itched. He wanted to reach for a notebook so he could write all of this down. Observation. Journaling his finds. Reporting back about what he saw. Micolash swatted Edgar’s hands away from the hunter’s head, and Edgar noticed they were already bloodied. He took his hands away, as he had been told to do. Refusing orders or requests wouldn’t change death, Edgar told himself, so he might as well obey and be a good student. 

The hunter’s head fell forwards and to the side, and blood that had already accumulated in the head cavity poured out, splattering on the floor. The hole wasn’t made with any sort of care, and it was large. In his peripheral vision Edgar saw a red-tinted sheen of whatever tool had been used to make the hole, but he didn’t need to look at it, didn’t _want_ to look at it. He knew what sort of tools were used for trephination- primitive things such as rocks or sophisticated instruments made specifically for that purpose. Seeing whatever had been used could have been important. Maybe it had some kind of bearing on the size or shape of the hole. Maybe it affected blood loss from the injury. Edgar couldn’t bring himself to look at the wretched thing. Knowing what had been used to snuff out an innocent person’s life; the guilt would kill him as well.

The Choir didn’t have to know everything, after all.

Edgar looked closer and saw bits of skull among the hunter’s brain, which seemed shoved-in or partially mangled; he glanced down at the blood that had fell onto the floor, noticing it had splattered droplets onto his pants and shoes, and within the main pool of metal-smelling crimson he saw _chunks_. They were almost unrecognizable, covered in red, but a nudge with his foot, feeling something hard against the floor and the sole of his shoe, and his suspicions were confirmed. Brains and skull bits as a result of cautious surgery turned into brutal execution.

Which was worse to stare into: the growing pool of blood, or the open cavity in what was once a hunter’s skull? Edgar didn’t have to decide; an ominous _schlurp_ drew his attention back to the hunter. There was the soft bubbling noise of air escaping from their skull; red foam frothed out of the wound between the brain and the back of their skull, and Edgar couldn’t tear his eyes away, although he wanted to; His desire to write down what he was observing turned into a disgusting _need._ The hunter’s brain glopped forwards after what felt like nothing less than an eternity, small strings of red membranes and pinkish slime were the only evidence that the godlike organ had been against the back of their skull. 

Then he noticed something, shiny and sticking out like obsidian pearls among the mottled red and pink sea of froth on the inside of their head. 

_Eyes_.

Eyes of all sizes, shapes, colors; some were fused in clusters while others had multiple pupils. Some of them had pupils that were beginning to collapse. Beasthood, rooted amongst the nerve paths and soft flesh of a hunter’s brain. They still twitched, pulsated, writhed as they tried to blink with malformed eyelids. Edgar looked closer at the hunter’s brain- what little he could see of it from where he was- and sure enough, there were a few eyes embedded among the soft and wrinkly head organ. They glanced at him, and he had an awful theory, as intellects often did, especially with matters as unexplainable as this. 

Edgar didn’t have time to muse or develop his theory; that would come later, when this whole ordeal was over and done with, and everything to be seen had been seen. For now he focused back on the eyes- they still moved, and he remembered how the human brain could still be active for up to minutes after death, and maybe the eyes, quivering and watery, were rampant thoughts formed during or after death, in brief limbo between the body and brain; the resulting pity shot through Edgar as if he’d been bashed in the chest with a tonitrus until his ribs broke. The poor confused things, spending their last minutes frantically peering at a world they were never supposed to see. Collapsed pupils though- that hadn’t been seen anywhere in the hamlet. _This_ was noteworthy, considering signs of beasthood, the obvious origins of this hunter and how long they must have been in the nightmare, wandering about blind and lost with their trio of comrades, unaware of the eyes lining their skull. 

Sudden movement, Micolash gesturing for Edgar to stand next to him with nothing more than “watch,” and a wave of his hand. Edgar complied wordlessly, but within the four steps it took to get to Micolash’s side, each footfall making his heart skip a beat, Edgar’s gut instincts seemed to scream and thrash and grab at his legs, telling him _keep still keep still keep still-_

But Edgar was a good student. And good students did what they were told. Even if they didn’t want to. Even if it was wrong.

Micolash was lifting his hand towards the hole with the deliberacy of a surgeon. Edgar's rapturous, undivided attention was brought back to the hunter again, now that he could just glance down and see nothing but the empty space occupied by eyes and complex head flesh. Micolash’s movements were confident; his first two fingers were stiff, as if he was stopping them from shaking as they went forwards to delve into the opened head cavity. Edgar saw there was a bit of a space between the brain and the back of the skull, barely enough to allow a finger through, and this was where Micolash had intended to prod about. Wouldn’t it be easier to explore the top of the skull? Nothing made sense about this man.

Edgar held his breath as the fingers delved inside, prodded the cranial organ on their descent to spineward eyes-

_“Oooh…”_

The hunter twitched.

 _Impossible_ , Edgar thought, _there’s no way they can be alive, I watched them stop moving, they didn’t just moan it was just air escaping the lungs it isn’t anything to worry about they’ll die soon they didn’t suffer they aren’t suffering I didn’t do anything wrong-_

But the tensing of their body, hands grabbing at the chair’s arms weakly, confirmed they still had a flicker of life in them. Their head moved, upwards; they wanted to look up again and Edgar stepped round, shoes slishing in the puddle of blood that had grown deeper and wider, to see their face- it was blank. Devoid of any emotion, it seemed, and their eyes were still glassy and distant. What did they feel? _How_ did it feel? Was everything around them just vague sensation? Edgar envied them; to not doubt and second-guess himself constantly or have guilt strangling his heart would be an immense relief, he realized, looking into bloodshot eyes that didn’t seem to see anything. If they did perceive, there was no way to tell, since the hunter didn’t react and their eyes didn’t focus. They just existed, unfeeling, for however long it would be until they finally died.

Micolash calling Edgar back to his side was the next thing he registered, along with a look of suspicion- what sort of student would care about lowly hunters? He wordlessly obeyed, watching the two digits drag up eyeballs from the depths of the hunter’s skull. Fingernails scratched, eyes detached, some of them popping or getting crushed and coating Micolash’s fingers in red and black body inks. They were brought out through the hole, maybe half a dozen in the man’s palm, covered in albumen-like pinkish slime, glistening like frog’s eggs- a cluster of living bits. Edgar was handed the eyes, and without thinking he took them. Where the eyes had been scraped from was like a bald spot or a trail, an empty space to put something into, with small divets where the eyes had rested. They weren’t perfect spheres- the pupil side was rounded, while the back lacked the normal optic nerve and was slightly convex. They were useless, and that was the worst part; they’d killed someone to harvest useless, almost parasitic body parts.

Edgar’s hands were dry; the eyes didn’t roll around, just sat there, seemingly stuck to his skin. They stayed in a clump in the center of his palm, wet and warm, trembling at the slightest movement. Five eyes in his hand, two with fully or partially collapsed pupils. He poked them with his free hand, expecting them to react, but they just wobbled. Rolling one of the eyes with a collapsed pupil away from the others, he glanced at Micolash, watching as he dug out more eyes, engrossed in his task and babbling while placing the round, unseeing organs on a steel tray Edgar had failed to notice before. He went back to musing over the eye that he’d rolled away from the group, the brown-gray pupil that seemed to have a cataract-like film over it; of course hunters, the few blessed with eyes in their heads, would have the effects of their growing beasthood effect their insides first. That was noteworthy, inner changes happening before outward changes, something to be written down and passed on to his superiors. But did he even want them to know about this? How much would he tell them if they asked how he learned this? Was he confident enough to admit what he’d been an accomplice to? How he watched a hunter die and did nothing to stop it? 

_By any means necessary. I did it for research. It was the only way to find out._

Knowledge was justifiable to his superiors, and they would want to know more, they would urge him to abduct another hunter- maybe bring them a few eyes to look at themselves. Their pursuit of knowledge seemed to ignore ethics. The end would always justify the means. Results. They just wanted something to write down and store in a book on a shelf. Edgar wanted to learn more, yes, but did he want to deal with this emotional turmoil again? True intellects didn’t feel like this, at least Edgar thought they didn’t, and he cursed himself for being so sensitive. He saw that Micolash had his back turned to him, and Edgar quickly shoved the eyes in his coat pocket, careful not to pop them. They would be useless if they popped, and by extension _he_ would be useless. And that was the last thing he wanted; to be trusted with something important, given the immense task, only to fail, wasting everyone’s and his own efforts only to be _useless_. 

And if he took the eyes back with him he wouldn't have to hunt down another hunter. That was, definitely, one of the reasons he wanted to come here. No more hunting, which made him ill, for the most part.

He heard eyes dropping into a glass jar, _plop drip plop_ , and looked at Micolash. The glass jar was slightly more than full. Screwing the lid back on was risky; compressing them too much would make them burst, or malform them. Edgar looked back down, decided he didn't want to stand among bone and flesh fragments in a puddle of blood and fluids, and stepped back round to Micolash’s side.

 

Just in time to watch the lanky man pluck an eye from the jar, bring it to his lips, and bite down; aside from the sickening, muffled _squelch_ , and the sheen of mucus and slime making his lips glossy, it was as if Micolash had just taken a pickled egg out of the jar and started eating it. 

The other half of the eye followed suit, minus the chewing, being swallowed whole. Edgar watched, floored, unable to react in any way besides his mouth opening and letting out a pathetic, choked noise. Another eye, another, more and more squelching between teeth and being swallowed whole, accompanied with small noises of approval. Approval of taste. Approval of collecting so many eyes. Approval of a job well done. Edgar craved that approval from superiors, hell, even from “fellow” students in this accursed place. Lanky hands offered him the last eye that kept the jar from closing, and he accepted it, not quite sure what to do. Was he supposed to eat it, too? A glance at Micolash confirmed that inference. 

Edgar was shaking, but he brought the eye to his lips. The feeling of cold, slimy, smooth organ matter was enough to make him retch- but he slipped it past his lips, against his teeth, not wanting to open his mouth but knowing he had to. There was no other way out of this situation. It slithered past his teeth, on his tongue, tasting vague seawater and something that resembled chewing at the inside of his cheek in the slime. In a perfect world, he could just swallow it whole and go back to his quarters. But this wasn’t perfect, not even close to anything resembling perfect, and Micolash’s eyes bore holes into his skull, being told to _bite down_ with just a look. 

So Edgar did just that.

It slipped between his teeth at first, but when he finally managed to bite down with his molars it felt like eating a cherry tomato, more watery than he had expected, somewhat fatty and faintly salty. The underlying taste of warm sweetbreads clung to the middle of his tongue, and when he chewed a few more times his teeth struck something that crunched like hardly-cooked tendon or ligament. He chewed a few more times, watching Micolash, looking him right in the eyes while choking down vomit and swallowing, grateful to be done consuming the worst thing he’d even eaten. 

It was so blatantly obvious that this was a test of loyalty. A test to see if he truly was a Mensis student. If he asked other students about eating eyes, would they look at him as if he’d sprouted horns? Or would they start to rave about whether the best part of eating them was the sloppy, fluid iris or the pop of biting past the lens? Edgar didn’t want to know the answer. 

He looked at Micolash, wiped his mouth, and asked “May I go back to my quarters, now?”

 

His superiors wanted to see him tomorrow, same meeting spot, same time- but they never chatted for long. Mainly passed letters and objects before saying good-bye. There was a fireplace near his desk, and Edgar usually enjoyed the warmth, but tonight, underneath all the churning and inky thoughts of the earlier events, it felt repressive and overbearing. He was writing, jotting down notes about earlier that day; so far the whole letter was to be dedicated to trepanning, eyes, and consumption of said eyes. Edgar felt sick to his stomach, recounting the events, but it was essential. He’d reached the end of his account of trepanning- the twitching, the noises, how quickly blood pooled and coagulated, all those things. Nothing noteworthy, of course, but now it was time to move on and write about the eyes lining the hunter’s skull, something that he _knew_ would be noteworthy, something that would demand praise.

But as Edgar wrote he began to think of the consequences. They’d want to know more, of course. But would they start sending more hunters into the nightmare for him to catch? Purposely letting them start to go mad before having Edgar catch them and bash their skulls in, as if they were no more than livestock, or something to be hunted? Sending droves of hunters to their deaths to repeat deeds done in a faraway, murkey, seaside place? Yet in the end, they would probably paint him as a hero, tucking away all the misdeeds and violent executions. One death had left blood on his hands, but that many would drench him in viscera and drown him. He started feeling sick again, throat closing and saliva gushing, and he felt muscles start to make him retch. He choked down vomit again, for the second time that night.

_He’d eaten another human’s eye._

That realization, raw and fresh, was enough to make his stomach expel what little was in it. Hunched over his wastebasket, retching, spitting long trails of mucus, spit, and bile, feeling soft chunks of half-digested supper get caught on his tonsils and among his teeth. The back of his throat burned, his eyes watered, the smell was starting to reach his sinuses and he almost retched again, coughing up more spit, thick and stringy. Edgar looked down at his mess, stomach acid taste still in his mouth, as if he'd see the eye he'd eaten staring back at him. 

All he saw was a pile of stomach contents, half-digested and stinking. He spat once more, wiped his mouth with his arm, and sat there. He debated cleaning it, looking between the wastebasket full of vomit and the door, and decided to just leave the thing outside his door before the stench permeated any further. 

Edgar dragged it outside, barely glanced at it as he went back inside, and slumped against the door when he closed it behind him. His desk was still cluttered with an array of papers, from church documents to notes from other students, all framing the center of his workspace which contained the dreaded letter he had been writing for the past hour. He threw himself back into his chair, annoyance radiating from every bone in his body, and jotted down the most half-assed end of a letter he’d ever written. He was too exhausted to put effort into it; writing a shorter version of what happened would suffice. A few more notes about the collapsed pupils, clusters of eyes like grapes, and strange eating habits, all recorded with the date and time before he was finally done. It was just paper and ink, of course, but when Edgar picked it up to seal it in an envelope it seemed heavy. 

He reached into his pocket for a pen, something to write on the envelope front with, but his fingertips brushed against round, tacky body parts; the eyes from earlier were still in his pocket. He’d forgotten about them.

He fished them out of his pocket, all six of them, and glanced between them and the letter, pondering over consequences, loyalty, his duties and how much his superiors were expecting. Results. Something they could use. Even the most minute of details was to be recorded and passed on.

But a few mistakes were allowed, of course.

Edgar looked at the eyes again, looked at the letter again, and made up his mind as he shakily clutched flesh pearls and written abominations in one hand. This was the right thing to do.

 

He didn’t even look at the wretched things as he threw them into the fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Trepanning For Woke Points 2018, aka How I Start My First Goretober.  
> I did... a lot of research about trepanning for this. And while I was on wikipedia at 2am I found a pretty interesting account of what trephination feels like, and sounds like, for whoever's on the receiving end; It was written by someone who did it to themselves, describing the noise as "air bubbles running under the skull as they were pressed out" and "gurgling".  
> Fuckin neato


End file.
